


Symbiosis

by Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alien Character(s), Angst, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:36:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4265133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just when you think you know someone, this happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It is not down in any map; true places never are.

**Title:** Symbiosis  
**Authors:**  
**Characters:** Wilson, House, Cuddy, Chase, Cameron, Foreman, a few OCs  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Warnings:** No  
**Spoilers:** None  
**Summary:** Just when you think you know someone, this happens. Section One is 5,637 words.  
**Author Notes:** I started writing this story in January of 2007. The Tritter Arc is beginning to wind down. Wilson is living in a hotel. House still makes occasional jokes about Australians. Take a trip down memory lane. The cut-text and all quotes within are from Herman Melville's _Moby-Dick_.  
**Intrepid Readers:** PWCorgigirl and Blackmare .

 

_**It is not down in any map; true places never are.** _

**Symbiosis**

 

_**Part One  
Heaven have mercy on us all** _

The naked man runs through the park. 

His legs piston up and down, bare feet pounding on the cold, wet tarmac of the jogging trail. His breath saws in and out, a painful rasp in his raw, burning throat. He's been running a long time but he doesn't know how long. He'd had clothes once but he doesn't know where they are. There had been a white light, a blinding pain in his head; he may have fallen but he doesn't remember. All he knows is running.

The man sobs as he runs, arms outstretched. The tree branches with their thin twig-fingers reach out to try and hold him. The path he's running along is uneven and he's stumbling, gasping for air.

His feet and legs are scratched and scraped; he's leaving a blood trail through the snow. His pursuers are using it to track him -- he can hear them getting closer, crashing clumsily through the underbrush. Their words as they call to each other make no sense.

The running man cries out in surprise as his foot catches on a fallen branch and he goes sprawling. Pain shoots up his left leg as he tries to scramble to his feet, and then there's no time for anything as his pursuers are on him.

************ 

The man was sweat-slick and wet with snowmelt . He rolled and bucked as his captors sought to restrain him, and when an unwary hand ventured too close to his mouth he snapped viciously at it.

 _"Ow!"_ the cop yelled, jerking his hand back. "Motherfucker fucking _bit_ me!"

"Shit," his partner said. "Come on, buddy, calm down or I'll use the Taser."

The man on the ground snarled, crab-scrabbling backwards on the ground and kicking at the cops' legs. He caught one of them a glancing blow and both cops pulled back.

"Fuck, that's it," one cop muttered. "I'm not getting hurt on a goddamned disturbance call."

He unclipped the Taser from his belt, aimed it at the struggling man and pressed the button. A blue spark, a static buzz of electricity, and the naked man went limp. The two cops worked quickly, rolling the man onto his stomach and cuffing his wrists behind his back. After a moment's consideration they cuffed his ankles too.

The cops stepped back, panting a little. The man on the ground moaned, pressing his face into the trampled grass. Now that he was still, steam rose from his body, condensing in tiny wisps in the freezing air. Goose pimples were beginning to rise on his arms and legs; blood oozed from the cuts on his feet and his left knee was beginning to swell.

"Ah, crap," the second cop muttered. He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the naked man's shoulders. "Trevor," he said. "Give this guy your coat and call the techs."

The first cop was indignant. "I'll call for the ambulance but he's not getting my jacket," he said. "Cocksucker _bit_ me. I'll be lucky if my damn hand doesn't fall off."

"You'd be lucky if your hand fell off before your dick, and do you have to be so fucking foul-mouthed all the time?"

His partner sneered. "Like you'd know about dicks, Bennie. Go fuck yourself. You okay?"

Bennie shook himself lightly. "I'm fine, no thanks to you."

************ 

The cops were moving around, stomping their feet in the snow and trying to keep warm when the two EMTs walked up. The embroidered tags over their uniform pockets identified them as Chris and Joe.

"Took you long enough," Bennie said. Chris shook his head. He was a young guy with an old face. 

"Hey, don't bust _my_ balls," he said. "It's six in the morning. Rush hour's just starting. We had to bring the ambulance in on the bike trails for the park, and this wasn't called in as an emergency." The medic looked at the man on the ground. Even with the jacket the guy was shivering and his teeth were chattering. Chris frowned at the cops.

"Don't you guys have any blankets? And why is there a shoe print on his butt?"

"The car's a couple miles over that way," Trevor said. He toed the prone man in the thigh. "And Naked Guy here kept trying to get up and hop away." He bent down, hands on his knees. "Hey!" he shouted. "Naked Guy! For the hundredth fuckin' time, what's your name?"

"Yeah, well, if we don't get your Naked Guy outta here, he's gonna fuckin' freeze to death," the EMT muttered. He knelt in the half-melted slush by the man's head. "Sir?"

"Careful," Bennie said. "He bites."

Chris nodded, keeping his hands well away. "Sir? Can you tell me your name? What were you doing in the park?"

The naked man squinted at him through half-closed eyes. He'd been crying; there were tear-streaks down his cheeks and along his nose. He blinked at Chris and hiccuped a little, mumbling something unintelligible.

Chris frowned and gingerly reached out to brush some of the man's snow-wet hair off his forehead. The man looked back at him, dark brown eyes above the high cheekbones --

The EMT froze, his hand still outstretched.

"Holy shit," he whispered. "Dr. _Wilson?"_

Bennie, who'd been leaning close enough to hear Chris's whispered exclamation, slowly straightened.

"Wait a minute," he said. "You _know_ this guy?"

Chris sat back a little on his heels, shaking his head.

"I've talked to him a few times in the ER -- he's just about the only doc who doesn't treat us like crap." He realized his hand was still right there by Dr. Wilson's face and that the doc had his eyes fixed on it. He pulled his hand back. Dr. Wilson's eyes followed it, then flicked up to Chris's face. He grunted and tried to shift position on the cold ground. Trevor immediately planted his foot on the man's buttocks again.

"Don't do that," Chris snapped. "This guy's a department head at the teaching hospital."

Trevor's foot didn't move. "Not right now he isn't," he said. "Right now he's Naked Guy With an Attitude."

"How you want to handle this, Chris?" the other EMT asked.

"Just a minute, Joe." He leaned in close. "Hey! Dr. Wilson? Dr. Wilson, what happened? Can you tell me what happened?"

Dark eyes stared into his own, and for just a moment Chris was sure he saw a glimmer of recognition.

 _"Ar woon,"_ Dr. Wilson said softly. _"Ar woon."_

Chris frowned. "What? 'Our wound?' What do you mean by that, Dr. Wilson?"

The doc shook his head, clearly frustrated. _"Ar --"_ he started again, then stopped. He squeezed his eyes shut; his lips pursed in a thin, squinched line as if he'd tasted something horribly sour. He began to cry again, shoulders shaking with great racking sobs under the police jacket.

"Ah, fuck," Trevor muttered, lifting his foot from the man's back.

************ 

When House's alarm went off at six that morning, he did what he did every morning.

He ignored it.

When his cell rang at eight, he ignored it too. When it rang again five minutes later, he woke up just enough to pick it up and flip it open. He blinked at the caller i.d. PPTH.

"Don't have any patients," House muttered. "Day off. Go 'way." He snapped the phone shut, punched viciously at his pillow, and closed his eyes.

His pager went off. For a moment House tried to ignore it, but it was doing a chattering little conga line across the nightstand and he finally rolled over and flung out an arm.

"Somebody better be dying," House grumbled. He grabbed the pager and tried to focus with eyes still gritty from interrupted sleep.

 _WILSON,_ the text read on the tiny backlit screen. _ER 911 NOW_

************ 

"What do we have?" House snapped, striding into the ER at 8:45. Clouds of nurses and techs swirled about him, everyone talking at once. "Chase!"

"Right here," Chase said, seemingly materializing out of nowhere.

"I'm going to assume for once you know what you're talking about. Don't make me prove you wrong. Where's Wilson?"

Chase flushed. "He's already in the ICU," he said. "But I'm not sure it's such a good idea for you to see him now."

House stopped; the accompanying wave of techs and nurses broke against him and curled into eddies and smaller streams.

"What happened? And don't leave anything out."

"He was running," Chase said. "Through the park by Carnegie Lake."

House raised one eyebrow.

"And he was naked."

The eyebrow crept higher. 

"Someone called it in as a disturbance, the cops came, there was an altercation." Chase took a deep breath, shifted his stance. "He was brought in severely disoriented and combative. He took a swing at the orderly and tried to kick Nurse Previn. It took four of us to hold him still long enough to get some Ativan into him." 

Chase's blue eyes fixed on House's. "You want to know what's happening? He's still disoriented. He's got a fever of unknown origin -- 103.3. He's in four-point restraints because he keeps trying to get up and walk away, which he can't because his feet are cut to pieces and his left knee badly swollen."

"Anything else?"

"Yes." Chase hesitated. "He's exhibiting signs of glossolalia."

"You mean aphasia."

Chase shook his head. "I mean glossolalia. He's speaking another language. Not English. Not anything in the books." 

House stared at him for a long moment. "Then let's not give him any snakes to handle and we'll be fine."

************ 

Wilson's eyes were closed. That was good; it gave House a small grace period in which to study him.

As Chase had said, Wilson was tethered to the ICU bed by his wrists and ankles. His feet were swathed in bandages; his left knee braced and covered with icepacks. A nurse had spared him the indignity of complete nakedness; a blanket was tucked around his hips and genitals. As for the rest of Wilson ... 

House shook his head. Wilson looked like he'd gotten in a fight with a bramble bush -- no, make that a whole _field_ of bramble bushes. He was covered with cuts and abrasions, his fingers and forearms scratched, his shins lacerated. There was an ugly bruise coloring up nicely across Wilson's right shoulder. _Branch,_ House thought. _Probably ran right into it, maybe even broke it, kept going._

He frowned. _Kept going. Running naked through the damn woods -- if he'd run into a tree branch at eye level -- what the hell is wrong here?_

"Wilson." He kept his voice soft. "Hey, Wilson. Talk to me."

The brown eyes opened.

Wilson recognized him.

 _"Ar woon,"_ Wilson said.

House's brows furrowed. The voice was husky, a couple of registers lower than Wilson's normal speaking tone. And "ar woon"? Chase was right; it certainly wasn't English. He quickly scanned through some of the foreign languages he had at least a passing acquaintance with -- Spanish, German, Urdu, Japanese -- nope, no "woons" in any of them.

Meanwhile, the look of recognition in Wilson's eyes had been replaced by one of pleading.

 _"Ar woon!"_ Wilson said again. The monitors began blinking as his agitation quickly grew. _"Ento,"_ he gasped, looking straight at House. _"Ento, weba sta da stoos."_ He pulled at the restraints, his face contorted with fear. _"Da stoos,"_ he said desperately. _"Da stoos."_

House stared at him, feeling the tiny hairs prickling on the back of his neck. This had all happened too quickly -- _shit, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore._

Wilson's head had fallen back against the pillow. His eyes were bright with unshed tears.

Without thinking, House leaned forward, smoothing the hair back from Wilson's face. His forehead was warm, too warm. The fever hadn't broken.

"Shhhhh," House murmured. "Calm down. It's okay." His thumb traced a gentle pattern on Wilson's forehead; he continued to speak as if to a small child. Wilson whimpered softly.

"We're going to find out what's wrong with you," House said. "Okay?"

Wilson gave no indication he'd understood anything House had said, but the low tone and physical touch had apparently done the job. Wilson relaxed, his agitation slowly dissipating.

"I'm leaving now, but I'll be back," House said.

Wilson's dark eyes followed his every move, and House felt them on his back all the way out the door.

* * *

_**Part Two  
Talk not to me of blasphemy, man; I'd strike the sun if it insulted me.** _

"Did you even _read_ the police report?" House was shouting; the sound bounced off the walls of Cuddy's office and reverberated back into his own ears. "They _Tasered_ him!"

Cuddy glared back, unmoved. "Did _you_ read the police report? I doubt it; otherwise you would've seen the parts about running from the cops, resisting arrest, and oh yes, _assaulting_ a police officer!"

"Wilson didn't _assault_ anyone! Hell, he can barely kill a cockroach!"

Cuddy leaned forward and pressed both hands flat on the desk, as if afraid it might suddenly start levitating.

"He _bit_ him, House. That's assault, no matter how you look at it." She shoved her chair back and stood up. "Not that you'd know anything about that," she added sourly. "Look, I understand that you're upset -- _I'm_ upset -- but considering what Wilson did I can't file a legitimate complaint."

"Something's wrong," she said. "Something's _very_ wrong. I think right now your time would be better spent figuring out what that something is."

************ 

"It's not a stroke," Foreman said. "No slurring of speech, no weakness on either side of the body."

"MRI was clean," said Chase. "No damage to the Broca or the Wernicke's regions."

House turned around slowly.

"He was still uncooperative, last I heard. How'd you get him into the machine?"

Foreman, to his credit, didn't look away.

"Do you really want to know?" he asked.

House decided he didn't. As long as they had results, the differential could still work.

"Tox screen? PCP? Coke?" Even as he spoke the words, he knew they weren't the answer.

Cameron shifted in her seat. "Tox was clean," she said. "Very slight alcohol content -- apparently he'd had a couple of drinks at the hotel bar before whatever happened ... happened."

************ 

"Nothing happened." The cop's voice was flat and final. "Nothing that we can see on this tape."

House leaned back. The two police officers eyed him warily.

"Play it again," House said.

Bennie sighed and pressed the button on the remote. The portable TV's screen jittered with unstable, wavy lines, then resolved into a night-time scene. The twenty-four clock in the upper right corner identified the date and time as last night.

Wilson, in his overcoat, turning his collar up against the lightly-falling snow, stepping out from the hotel entryway. Disappearing into the darkness. A faint flash of light, as if from the headlights of a passing car.

"We found his clothes about a half-mile into the park," Bennie said. "Stripped off in a hurry. Broken buttons on his shirt. Gone running."

"Naked Guy," Trevor muttered, and House shot him a sharp look. Trevor raised his hands defensively; one of them was bandaged with white gauze.

"I call 'em as I see 'em."

"Yeah, well ... what you see isn't always the answer, and a cop's answer to every problem is to pull out his -- "

"Hey!" Trevor held up his hand again; they'd closed the blinds in order to view the videotape and the white bandage seemed to glow in the dim light. "Your Dr. Wilson _bit_ me. I'm having to get a fuckin' tetanus shot. He tried to kick Officer Kafka here. We did what we had to do."

House opened his mouth to reply, but the other cop spoke first.

"Cut it out. Both of you."

Trevor looked away, clearly angry.

"Dr. House." Bennie's voice was low and serious. "Everybody downtown knows how the Detective Tritter investigation turned into a goddamn clusterfuck. Like it or not, it got around. Let's just say you don't have a real good reputation at the stationhouse right now."

"You think I care about my reputation?" House growled.

Bennie leaned back in his chair and glanced at his partner.

"No," he said. "I don't think you do. But I do think you care about Dr. Wilson."

Trevor's laugh was a short, sharp bark.

"Shut up," Bennie said.

Trevor snorted. "Go fuck yourself." There was no real malice in the words.

Bennie smiled, and House got the feeling it was a comfortably familiar routine between the two.

"We done here, Dr. House?"

House pushed himself up from his chair. "Yeah," he said reluctantly. "Yeah. You're right, we can't tell anything from the tape."

"Told you," Trevor muttered.

House ignored him.

************ 

"Any luck with the words?" House asked. "Ar woon? Ento? Stoos?"

Chase shook his head.

"'Woon' is an Afrikaans word, means something like 'was' or 'were'. 'Stoos' is a region in Switzerland. Nothing that makes sense strung into a sentence, and probably not anything Dr. Wilson would know."

No one moved. The three fellows looked at one another, none wanting to be the first to say it. It was Cameron who finally spoke up.

"Face it, House," she said. Her voice was gentle, her expression kind. In that moment House hated her more than he'd hated anyone in his life. "It's not drugs and there's no sign of a head injury, brain trauma, or any other kind of illness. Aside from the twisted knee and low-grade fever, Wilson's as healthy as a horse. The most likely cause is a psychotic break. I know you don't want to hear this, but it's really the only explanation. It happens. Even to doctors."

"It doesn't happen to _Wilson,"_ he growled.

The conference room was silent. The coffeepot burbled in the corner. The ambient noise from the hallway was a low hum.

 _Everything's so normal,_ House thought. _Why is everything so fucking **normal?**_

Chase cleared his throat. "Maybe he's ... possessed," he said, and looked quickly down and away as everyone stared at him.

Cameron snorted a laugh and tossed her pen on the table.

"Yeah," she said, her voice dripping sarcasm. "That'd be a great idea if this were the fifteenth century."

"And if Wilson weren't Jewish," Foreman added.

House ignored them both; gripping his cane, he turned a little to stare out the window. Snow was still swirling down, the flakes tatting delicate patterns of frosty lace on the glass. He heard a thump as one of his fellows slapped a file closed.

"Please tell -- " A pause, and then a sigh. Cameron's voice. "Please tell me you're not seriously considering this."

House didn't turn around. "A good diagnostician plays all the cards on the table."

"Even when they're Tarot cards?" Foreman mumbled.

* * *

_**Part Three  
Consider the subtleness of the sea** _

Later that same day, when it was clear Wilson was not in any immediate danger, House authorized his move to a private room. The transfer took place without incident; in the nine hours since Wilson's admission he had slowly grown more calm and tractable.

House, on the other hand ...

"What do you _mean_ no one's found his shoes?"

Cameron fought to keep her temper in check.

"House, what difference does it make? If his clothes didn't show anything, what makes you think his shoes will?"

"We won't know until we see them, will we?" Each word was ground out; House's piercing blue eyes fixed her with an icy stare. "Get the EMTs on the phone -- "

"It's not the EMTs job to look for patients' shoes."

"Then get the _cops_ on the phone," he snapped. "Bennie Kafka. Trevor ... what the hell was the other one's name?"

"Nottingham," Foreman supplied.

"Nottingham," House repeated. "Fine. Get Joseph K. and Robin Hood on the phone and ask them where Wilson's goddamned shoes are!"

"House, the shoes have probably been stolen by now," Chase said. "And who's Joseph K.?"

House rolled his eyes. "Philistine," he muttered. "Don't they teach you anything in New Zealand?"

"Australia."

"Whatever."

"The shoes are a red herring." Cameron's voice was steady; she didn't flinch from House's glare. "You're using this to avoid the issue." 

"And what's the issue, _Doctor_ Cameron?" The emphasis was carefully placed, low and cutting.

"You don't want to admit what's wrong with Dr. Wilson."

************ 

House rubbed his eyes wearily, grinding the knuckles in to force himself awake. Even so, the black words on the pages and papers and the blue words on his computer screen flitted away like tiny gnats. It was full dark outside; the sodium lights beyond the hospital walls cast a pale yellow light through the glass walls of his office.

His desk was covered with books and files, texts and tomes. The latest issue of the _New England Journal of Medicine_ lay open, a ground-breaking article on anomia paper-clipped and highlighted. Emailed documents from a colleague in Berlin littered the floor, tossed there when House had realized they didn't contain the clues he sought. A worn paperback copy of _Black Elk Speaks_ lay face-down in one corner.

None of it was of any use. He'd hit a brick wall. Wilson wasn't getting any worse, but then he wasn't getting any better either.

On the way out, House lifted the phone and ordered the restraints removed from Wilson's wrists and ankles. 

It was the least he could do tonight.

************ 

House is dreaming.

He knows he's dreaming because Wilson is standing before him, naked.

It's not that House hasn't _seen_ Wilson naked, because he has, most definitely. You don't go for nigh-on eight years knowing someone, and that someone a fellow doctor, without seeing them naked at some point. There have been plenty of times when one or the other has stepped out of the shower after being violently puked on, or in scrub prep, or, in the early days, after a vicious game of handball, but all that has been mostly behind them. Until now.

Except there's something not quite right.

Wilson is smiling, and there's something not quite right about that either. Wilson's eyes are wrong.

"Greg," Wilson says, and _shit,_ that's not right -- Wilson never calls him Greg, not even in stupid, screwed-up dreams like this one.

"Greg," Wilson says again, more softly, and he's looking at House expectantly, like he's waiting patiently for House to figure something out and it's so fucking obvious but House _isn't getting it._

In his dream House licks his lips -- they're so dry but there's no water to be found.

"Jimmy?" 

Wilson grins like he's just won the lottery.

"House," Wilson says, and that's right, that's the way it should be. "Look at me. What am I not?"

House frowns, trying to puzzle out the answer. Wilson waits for him, just as he's always waited, never pulling ahead even when he could.

It's a conundrum -- Wilson _looks_ the same; tall and lean, dark-haired and dark-eyed -- wasn't there something wrong with Jimmy's eyes just a moment ago? -- the bare beginnings of middle-aged spread --

House blinks.

Wilson is uncircumcised.

************ 

House bolted upright in bed, breath slamming in and out of his chest.

 _WRONG!_ his mind screamed. _What the hell? What the hell is going on?_

It took him twenty minutes to pull on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt; not bothering to lace up his Nikes, he grabbed his helmet and jacket.

_Missing it. It's right there in front of me and I'm missing it._

The ride to the hospital took fifteen minutes; in the past it had only taken ten but House was more careful these days and stopped at yellow lights.

_I'm missing it because I've been looking at Wilson --_

No. Not quite ready to go there yet.

House stalked through the hallways. At three in the morning the hospital was as close as it would ever get to real down time -- even now in some corridors there were knots of people, doctors, nurses, techs, patients -- waiting for what? Life, death, the difference between the two. Information.

He stopped outside Wilson's door. The light was dim in this section; shadows concealing the details, hiding the obvious.

House took a deep breath and opened the door.

Wilson's bed was empty.

House swore. _One place. One place he'd go._

Moving as fast as he could, House stumbled to the elevator, frantically punched the button for the fourth floor. His thoughts were chasing themselves in circles, drawing ever closer to the solution.

Only one set of lights was on in the Diagnostics conference room. As he pushed inside, he could see a figure standing in front of the whiteboard, writing in stark black strokes across the polymer surface.

House limped slowly into the room, stopping a few feet behind Wilson.

Wilson was listing a little, compensating for the twisted knee. Wilson's expression was thoughtful; lips pursed a little as he regarded what he'd written on the whiteboard. House stared along with him.

Crooked lines, dots, shapes like tiny tree branches grouped into regular spaces. Sentences. Drawings and sketches, circles and rays, slashes for what appeared to be mathematical equations.

Wilson turned his head, cocked it to one side. One of the banked set of conference room lights caught his eyes, and for just a moment the reflection shone like silver. He raised his right hand, put a finishing squiggle shape on the board.

"Dr. House," he said. The voice was low, the same voice House had heard before. Wilson had been speaking gibberish then. "We wondered how long it would take you to find us."

_I'm missing it because I've been looking at Wilson -- and this isn't Wilson._

* * *

_**Part Four  
Signs and wonders, eh?** _

The man who wasn't Wilson turned away and half-hobbled, half-hopped to one of the conference table chairs. He sat down heavily, winced, and rubbed at his still-swollen knee.

He looked at House. "So here we are," he said. "You know, Greg -- "

"Don't call me that." The venom in House's own voice surprised even himself. "You haven't got the right to call me that. Only he does."

The man stopped rubbing his leg.

"You're right," he said. "My apologies, Dr. House." He resumed massaging his knee and the muscles above it, running his hands up and down his quadriceps through the thin cotton hospital gown. The action was strangely familiar to House, and he looked away.

"We've come to an agreement," the man said. 

"Who has?"

The man who wasn't Wilson looked faintly surprised. "Dr. Wilson and myself," he said. "I would've thought that was obvious by now."

House gripped his cane tightly. Pulling another chair closer, he too sat down.

"Where's Wilson?" he asked.

"Here, where he's always been," the man said.

"Let me see him."

The man shook his head. "Not yet. Not until you've heard me out." His eyes shone again, dull silver in the ambient light. He leaned back in his chair.

"Dr. Wilson has agreed to stop fighting me, but only if you, Dr. House, accept the deal we've worked out."

House stared at him, trying not to think about how reality had taken a flying leap out the nearest window. A car horn sounded in the street below.

"He'll let me stay. You'll accept the situation for as long as I'm here. That's it."

"What the hell are you?"

The man's eyes seemed to glitter. "I'm an Observer, Dr. House. It's what I do. It's what I was born to do. No harm will come to Dr. Wilson or yourself, but I cannot leave until my assignment is over. The only question is where Dr. Wilson will spend the time that I'm here -- in a psychiatric ward, or here -- with you."

House shook his head.

"I have to know more," he said. "I'm not buying a pig in a poke." House watched as the stranger's eyes grew opaque for a moment, as if a question asked was quietly answered.

"Very well." The man who wasn't Wilson smiled suddenly, and the expression was so open, so _Wilson_ , that House felt his heart clench in his chest.

"I'm an Observer. We Observe. It's what important to us; it's what we do. At any given time there are forty-three of us on any given world, scattered over the thousands of inhabited worlds in this particular sector. We watch. We learn. We transmit the information back to _our_ world, where our fellow citizens who aren't Observers can absorb it, and grow, and become better citizens." The man tried to straighten his leg out, and grimaced a little.

"Right now there are forty-two versions of me, living other lives, being other people, on this planet. All assignments are random; your Dr. Wilson just happened to be mine. It's what I'm here for -- it's what I'll do."

The man leaned back a little, spreading out his hands.

"And that's it."

House thumped his cane against the floor, trying to think. Exactly when he'd stepped into this particular episode of _The Twilight Zone_ , he wasn't sure. He needed to buy some time.

"What happens to Wilson?" he asked. "You hurt him before; how do I know you won't hurt him again?"

The man who wasn't Wilson shrugged. "For all intents and purposes, I disappear. Dr. Wilson doesn't remember what happened, doesn't know I was here. Neither does anyone else. Except for you."

"Answer the rest of the question."

The stranger looked away. "It's not important. It won't happen again."

"It's important to _me!"_ House realized he was shouting and lowered his voice. "He stripped off his clothes and ran naked through the woods. He was incoherent and disoriented. He saves lives every day and you are _fucking with his mind!"_

House leaned forwards, his next words spoken in a low growl. "Answer me or I'll see that you're confined to a psych ward for the rest of your natural life where the only thing to _observe_ will be people drooling into their Rice Krispies."

"You'd consign Dr. Wilson so easily to such a fate?"

"You're not Dr. Wilson. And if you could come so close to destroying him like that, then I can't take that chance with any of his patients."

"Since when have you given a damn about Dr. Wilson's patients? Cue balls, you've called them. Cancer kids."

"Those are just words," House snarled. "It's actions that matter. _He_ matters. Now answer the fucking question!"

Silver flashed again in the man's eyes. "It wasn't _intentional,"_ he snapped. "Something went wrong -- the insertion skipped and hung for just a moment. It was exactly long enough for us to get out of synch." He looked away, obviously embarrassed and angry. "We were both out of control. It won't happen again. I'm here and I'm staying."

The stranger lifted his right hand, rubbed at the back of his neck.

"You weren't supposed to know about any of this. It's your Dr. Wilson who won't cooperate. He says you ... have to know. That there's someone else in here. He says -- everybody lies, but he won't lie to you, ever again."

The fluorescent lights hummed softly. House traced geometric patterns on the handle of his cane.

"How long is your ... assignment?" 

"Usually a year. Sometimes longer."

House's mouth was suddenly very dry. "How much longer?"

The other man didn't look away. "Sometimes a lifetime," he said softly. "But as I said, you'd never know I was here."

"I doubt that," House said.

The conference room fell silent.

"So what you're saying," House said at last, "is that if we leave you in peace to ... observe, you'll restore Wilson, and everyone will live happily ever after."

The man who wasn't Wilson nodded. 

"And you can't leave until your assignment is complete."

The stranger nodded again. "You can treat Dr. Wilson for a one-time psychotic episode, or you can confine me to a psychiatric ward. Obviously I would prefer the former, but it's up to you, Dr. House."

House rested his forehead on his cane for a moment, trying to absorb the implications of the night.

"Let me see Wilson," he said at last.

The other man looked at him steadily, and then, for just a moment, there was _Wilson_ , gazing at him, one eyebrow quirking upwards.

House's breath caught in his throat. 

And just as suddenly as he had appeared, Wilson was gone. House slumped back in his chair.

"Well?" The voice was soft, inquiring.

House roused himself just enough to answer.

"How do you know I won't report any of this -- tell everyone what's happened?"

The stranger shook his head. "You think anyone would believe you?" he asked. "You're brilliant, that's undeniable. You're also in chronic pain and an addict. If your best friend suddenly fell ill and _you_ started babbling about Observers ... you'd be the next one they'd diagnose with a psychotic break."

House's guts twisted. 

"I'll know it's you," he said. "What should I call you?"

The man who wasn't Wilson looked surprised for a moment, then barked a short, sharp laugh.

"Call me Ishmael," he said, and grinned at his own joke.

"Very funny," House grunted. "What about that?" he asked, nodding towards the whiteboard.

"Take a picture before you erase it," the stranger said. "Otherwise your Fellows will just ask embarrassing questions. You'll see it again one day, anyway." He shifted in his chair, wincing a little. "So -- do we have an agreement?"

"Yes." The word caught in his throat and he coughed a little. "What happens next?"

The man who wasn't Wilson smiled. "This," he said, and closed his eyes.

A bright light filled the room; House squinted.

Outside, the sun was coming up.

* * *


	2. But once gone through, we trace the round again ...

_**Part Five  
I know not all that may be coming ... ** _

A few of the papers slid out of the patient file as it was slapped down on his desk.

"He's better."

Cameron. He'd known it would be Cameron. House leaned back in his chair, slowly pulling the iPod buds from his ears. Roger Daltrey's voice faded away with them.

"I'm sorry, did I miss something? I thought the whole point of hospitals was ... oh, I don't know ... to make people better?"

She glared at him. "Not this fast," she hissed. "His fever's broken; he's awake and coherent. _He wants to get dressed and go back to his office."_

"Sounds like he's cured."

"He's _not cured!_ He needs therapy; we need to find out why this happened." Cameron took a deep breath. "Prevent it from happening again."

"It's not going to happen again."

"How do you know this?"

"Because I know Wilson," House said.

Cameron stared at him. "Maybe you don't know him as well as you think," she said at last. "I'm going to keep an eye on him."

House watched her go, her heels tip-tapping as she walked away down the hospital corridor.

"You do that," he muttered, and repositioned the earbuds. If he turned up the volume loud enough, maybe he could drown out the voices of doubt in his head.

************ 

_Cameron was right about one thing,_ House reflected. _Wilson **was** better._

Cuddy had insisted on keeping Wilson another night for observation; when the next morning found him sitting up in bed, charts and patient notes spread out across the bed like a paper quilt, she'd ordered him discharged into House's care.

"You're moving back in with me," House said.

"Okay," Wilson replied agreeably.

House looked around quickly, but Wilson simply smiled.

"No argument? No 'House, you're going to trap me here and make me as miserable as you'?"

Wilson shook his head. "Nope. I'm tired of the hotel." His left hand picked at a part of the hospital blanket not covered with papers. "I'm tired of being alone." He glanced up at House. "Chinese tonight?"

 _I'd recognize that look anywhere,_ House thought. _Patented James-Wilson-Puppydog-#2 Look, in all its glory._ He searched Wilson's face for any sign of ... what? What was he looking for?

"Sure," he said. "Sounds good."

And it was.

************ 

"That guy called."

Bennie looked at his partner. "What guy?"

"You know. The guy." 

Bennie's expression remained blank. Trevor snorted in frustration.

"Naked Guy!"

Comprehension dawned. "Him! The doc!"

"Yeah, him. He called me."

Bennie watched a pedestrian cross the street. Jaywalking?

Trevor popped a sunflower seed in his mouth. "He said he was sorry."

The pedestrian reached the other side and continued on his way.

"Sorry?"

"For fuckin' biting me."

The sun was warm on Bennie's left arm and he moved it out of the direct light.

"Bet he didn't say 'fuckin''."

Trevor tried to spit the seed hull out of the police cruiser window. It hit the top of the frame instead and fell back inside the car.

"Course he didn't. He's a fuckin' doctor. Big-time doctors like him don't say 'fuckin'." He spit out another hull. The same thing happened.

"Nice guy, calling you like that," Bennie said. "Nice to know he's okay." Reaching over, he tried to grab the snack bag. "Stop with the goddamn sunflower seeds already. You're messin' up the car. You think I want your spit all over the friggin' car?"

"Fuck you," Trevor said companionably.

Bennie grinned. "Yeah, and the horse you rode in on."

************ 

House wasn't sure when things had changed, but they had.

Wilson wanted to go places, do things, and he insisted on dragging House along with him. Giants games, Jets games, Mets games, museums, historic sites, the New York Public Library. They took day trips, night trips, weekend trips. Wilson was like a little kid, having to see the sights, take it all in. It wasn't good enough to surf the 'Net; he had to _see_ everything for himself.

House went along, sniping, grouching, and belittling every step of the way. After a while he found his right leg getting stronger from all the activity. His Vicodin dosage dropped. Wilson didn't lecture him anymore; House began to reluctantly allow himself to enjoy the outings.

************ 

"So that's her."

House rocked gently from side to side, using his cane to help balance him on the sightseeing boat. "That's her," he agreed. "Give me your tired, your poor, your blah blah blah yearning to breathe the polluted air of the big city. If you can make it here you can make it anywhere."

Wilson grinned, turning back to look at House. There was a glint of silver.

House froze, his hands tightening on the smooth wood.

"Ishmael?" he whispered, but Wilson was already lifting the binoculars to his eyes and the moment was gone.

************ 

He watched Wilson at the hospital.

Was Wilson standing too close to patients, to family members? Did he hold the hands of the dying just a little too long?

He couldn't tell.

He realized he'd never really watched Wilson before. Watched, but never _watched_. Maybe Cameron was right.

************ 

House poured himself a cup of coffee. "I heard you called the cop."

"How'd you hear that?"

"Station commander called Cuddy; thanked her for having such a _nice guy_ on staff." He eyed Wilson over the rim of the cup. Wilson smiled.

"Yeah, that's me, Mr. Nice Guy."

"Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"I thought you didn't care for the police anymore. Especially from that precinct."

"What are you -- " Wilson rolled his eyes. "You mean since that thing."

House set the coffee cup down. "Yes. That thing." 

"It was the right thing to do then, it would be the right thing to do now, and it was the right thing to apologize to the cop I assaulted." He studied House closely. "I thought we were past all this. What's up?"

"Nothing," House said. "Got a case. Gotta go."

************ 

What _was_ up? House didn't know. Wilson hadn't moved out. Sometimes they slept together. Sometimes they didn't. A lot of nights they spent watching movies -- old movies, new movies, films House was sure Wilson had seen before. Whether it was flickering black-and-white with subtitles or Orcs and Hobbits, Wilson watched them all with the same rapt attention as House watched _him_ out of the corner of his eye.

Why was he watching his best friend?

He pulled out the cell phone photo of the whiteboard and stared at it for a long time.

************ 

Six months later the new issue of _Astronomy Today_ came out. The entire magazine was devoted to the discovery of the Earth-like planets circling the binary suns in Canis Minor.

The artist's rendering on the magazine cover exactly matched the circles and rays of the whiteboard drawing.

************ 

"Who are you?" House whispered.

Wilson sighed, nuzzling a little closer into House's shoulder. "Mmmmmhhh?"

"Are you Jimmy? Or are you Ishmael, Observing?"

Wilson's breath slowed, deepening into sleep. House tightened his arms, hugging the other man closer to him.

"Is this real?"

There was no answer.

* * *

_**Part Six  
I try all things, I achieve what I can.** _

The months pass; one year rolls by, then another. House has long since stopped watching, spying; has simply let things be. It's too exhausting to do otherwise. Besides, there's something better than watching.

Listening.

Wilson has begun talking in his sleep, and House has discovered that with just a little coaxing, Wilson will talk to _him._

The first few times it happens, House grunts and nudges Wilson until the other man heaves a deep sigh and turns over. House is a light sleeper, moreso after the infarction, and he doesn't need Wilson mumbling in his ear, keeping him awake.

That changes the first time he realizes Wilson's mumbles are actually narrations of his dreams. Even more interesting -- these aren't Wilson's dreams.

 _"Feathers,"_ Wilson says. His voice is soft and low. Ishmael's voice. _"Bright feathers."_

House rests on one elbow. He knows through trial and error to ask short, uncomplicated questions. Sometimes the answers make no sense, but House has learned to use his imagination.

"Who had feathers?" he asks quietly. "What feathers?"

Wilson turns his head in the direction of House's voice. His eyes don't open; House can see the rapid tracking movements of REM sleep under the eyelids.

 _"Wings. Flew over the golden seas. Under the double sun."_

A shiver runs down House's back. A planet circling a binary star.

"How long?"

Wilson shakes his head, regret creeping into his voice. _"Only a few months,"_ he says sadly. _"Only a few months."_ He mumbles something House can't quite catch.

"Where after that?"

_"Other places. Other oceans."_

House adjusts his position, making himself more comfortable. "What did you do there?"

 _"Swam,"_ Wilson sighs. _"Swam and swam. Yellow. Hot."_

"What else?"

Wilson turns on his side, kicking a little at the blankets in an unconscious frog motion.

_"Sang."_

"Sang?" House can't keep the surprise out of his voice, and Wilson smiles a little in his sleep.

 _"Sang,"_ he murmurs. _"Songs of the chase. Songs of the hunt. My brothers and I -- songs of the beginning."_ His forehead wrinkles. _"Ummmm ..._ hmmm?" One eye opens, squinting. "House? What? You okay?"

"Fine," House says, lying back down. "I'm fine. You were dreaming."

"Um. Don't remember."

And that's the thing -- Wilson never remembers. It's like a private show two or three nights a week, for an exclusive audience of one. Sometimes Wilson's own dreams merge and meld with Ishmael's, and House gets a jumbled mix of images that make no sense: lambs and German zeppelins, a desert world blazing beneath a giant sun, plastic-covered furniture in a dim room, wolf-like creatures sprinting across a snow-covered plain under five perfect crescent moons.

The dreams are fascinating, the puzzles never-ending.

As far as House is concerned, Ishmael can stay as long as he wants.

************ 

It's winter of the second year, snow falling silently, piling in drifts against the curbs and brownstones of the gentrified district of Princeton.

 _"Journeys,"_ Wilson whispers. _"Ends. Beginnings."_

"What ends? What beginnings?" House is whispering also, trying to urge Wilson into a dream.

Wilson is standing at the Diagnostics whiteboard, right hand busy with signs and symbols, fortunes and portents.

 _"Sounds,"_ Wilson murmurs. _"Rosebud. Kryptonite. I alone am left to tell thee."_

"Ishmael," House says.

Who is dreaming? Who is awake?

************ 

The end, when it comes, comes without warning.

One minute Wilson is pointing at the X-rays clipped to the lightscreen, explaining in no uncertain terms how it cannot possibly be sarcoidosis; the next he is looking blankly at House, one hand clapped to the back of his head as if feeling for something not there. A yarmulke, a fedora, the dampness of melted snow.

"House?" he says, his eyes wide and owl-like. "It hurts." His voice trails off. House's new fellows, Samuels and Smith and Fox, sit transfixed. House rises slowly from his chair. Wilson's eyes fix on his.

"Greg," Wilson says softly. His eyes flash silver, then roll back in his head as he collapses to the floor.

************ 

"He's had a cerebral vascular event," Smith says. She's short, blonde, and Swiss -- as different from Cameron as House could get.

House thumps his cane angrily on the floor. "First rule. Don't use three words where one will do. He's had a stroke."

Smith looks away. "A stroke," she agrees. "We won't know the extent of the damage until the tests come back and he regains consciousness."

She hesitates, and House completes the rest of her unspoken sentence.

_If he regains consciousness._

************ 

"You got that?" House says, tossing the ubiquitous dog-toy ball to Wilson, underhand. Wilson catches it easily in his right hand.

It's a legacy of the stroke, along with a slight slurring of speech when Wilson is stressed. 

"Thai," Wilson replies. "I'll order on the way home."

************ 

"Sometimes I wonder what happened," Wilson murmurs.

"When?" The low cool sound of Dave Brubeck seeps in from the den. House is tracing circular patterns on Wilson's bare chest.

"That night. My first seizure. When I fought the law and the law won."

House laughs softly. "It's all in the past. Past and forgotten."

************ 

The months pass; one year rolls by, then another, on and on, world without end, amen.

House is nearing retirement age; Wilson keeps encouraging him to take it, to take it easy for once, to rest. 

_To rest is to rust,_ House thinks, but doesn't tell Wilson this.

************ 

The thoughts come more often now, unbidden and painful.

House gazes at Wilson, asleep beside him, one arm even now flung protectively over House's graying chest hairs. No more dreams. No more adventures. No more gallivanting on the horses of the night.

He hates himself nowadays, more often than not. What he had, what he lost, what he regained and lost again. He can't stop remembering.

Feathered beings over a golden sea. Alien creatures in a sulphuric ocean singing songs of loss and redemption. Brothers. Sisters. Debts and fortunes. The way things are, and are not.

He hates himself for not being able to let go, for not being able to hold on. He remembers the night in the conference room, staring into silver eyes.

That night, and all the nights of dreaming, Wilson had known -- had known the distance between the suns and stars, the way it felt to run on four legs, the answers to all the unsolved puzzles and unasked questions.

House buries his head in his hands. The question born of jealousy rises again.

_Why him? Why him and not me? Why?_

************ 

Wilson looks around, the pale morning light streaming in through the windows.

"It's still snowing," he says.

 

~ The End

 

_**There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, though the wit thereof he but dimly discerns, and more than suspects that the joke is at nobody's expense but his own.** _


End file.
